Less than four weeks until year's end, and three posts sit as drafts since April - none of which mention the week studying Art of Islamic Pattern in Fez in late Spring; the two weeks in June with our teenage niece and nephew spent frolicking in Mallorca before initiating them to the African safari in Botswana and Zambia; an early birthday celebration in late Summer in complete relaxation on the Amalfi coast in Ravello and Positano; and most recently, our Icelandic Winter adventure with my sister-in-law and her family. Before I write about the latter though, I'll take two steps back to October:

I waited with great anticipation from the moment we arrived home from our last visit less than a year ago. Given that my longest stay had ever been only one week, a fortnight in New York City was a luxury. Our visit was three-fold: business for my husband, leisure for us both, and the hunt for a pied-à-terre which warrants its own post, so I won't say anything further about it at the moment.

Instead, my thoughts on this post are about my change of view, the view through a rangefinder. Photography has only ever been a leisurely pursuit since the purchase of my first SLR in 2000 - the Canon EOS 300. I regretted not getting instruction then on how to use the camera properly. Five years later, I plunged into my first DSLR and my enthusiasm for photography grew a hundredfold. It was during my time with the Canon 20D when my husband and I crossed the pond with one-way tickets and our travels began. Not long after, I upgraded to the Canon 5D Mk II and if I had a drop of sentimentality for any of my gear, it would be for this camera which I lugged across continents and oceans from the Australian outback to the Atlas Mountains in Morocco to the beaches of Zanzibar, but I never considered it my faithful companion. It only ever was just a tool. I started to use it to capture my new interest in food at home partly to stir up the dust between travels. As camera phones continually improved, I used the ginormous DSLR less and less and had even forgotten about it on occasion whilst it sat in my Billingham bag in a cupboard. I grew tired of hauling the beast, my zeal for photography waned, and my travel blog suffered the consequences.

I yearned to feel the excitement I once had for photography, the desire to create images with a proper camera. The iPhone was no longer enough. My search for an unobtrusive, simple digital camera lead me to the Leica brand, but it took almost two years to justify the cost. No other camera comes a close second in my mind, and no other camera is an object of beauty in my eyes. Realising that making the change to a rangefinder would be a task made me lust for it more. I needed and wanted the challenge.

Leica M has become my faithful daily companion strapped across my body these past two months. Together, we rambled Manhattan's streets and admired its skyline from across the East River in Brooklyn; returned home to England in time to capture Autumn in its splendour and it accompanies me on my daily errands and jaunts into town.

Since my focusing remains hit-and-miss, I didn't feel ready venturing into Iceland with the Leica M, but consequently, this recent trip confirmed my decision of this great purchase. I arrived home with a handful of images that solidifies the leap I made for the change in view - images of sheer joy captured on the faces of our nieces which brought tears to my sister-in-law's eyes. So, was this exorbitant purchase worth it? Absolutely.

This exceptionally built camera feels lovely; it sits comfortably between my hands. And despite the weighty combination of the Noctilux-M 50mm lens on the M-P 240 body, it is still compact enough to fit in my shoulder bag along with my Kindle and travel essentials. The different view through the rangefinder - the obstructed view with the lens attached forces me to take my time and be more thoughtful about each image I'm trying to create. The process of shooting is now utter pleasure.

Do you think it excessive to paint nine coats on one wall? The initial four coats were painted by my decorator: the first two coats on the white plaster, in high sheen Intelligent Eggshell, clashed with the deep hue of Thai Sapphire; the finish of the second two coats in Absolute Matt harmonised with the dramatic saturated hot-blue colour, however every touch left a mark, which could not be wiped clean. After some weeks, my tolerance level of the lightly scuffed surface reached its threshold, so more tins of paint and paint rollers were purchased to attempt the task myself. Four additional coats in Intelligent Matt resulted in a richer hue, but I was unsuccessful in achieving a smooth finish with the roller. Begrudgingly, paintbrush to hand, the ninth and final coat was painted drying to a brushstroke finish, which left me satisfied much to my surprise. Alas, perfectionism is the bane of my life.

There's hardly a trace of old furnishings around our home. Of course, we didn't cross the pond eleven autumns ago with any at all. The early years could only afford me to gaze at unique pieces of fine craftsmanship in interior design magazines, whilst surrounded by self-assembled furniture purchased from a certain Swedish-founded retailer. My taste in design is simple and restrained, but fine simplicity comes at a rather dear price, to the dismay of my loving dear husband.

It is only in retrospection that I can truly appreciate the process that has procured our present. In recognising that hardship and trying times are integral to the work in progress, the climb is less arduous. I find myself taking greater care in my choices since I would rather live without, than settle for something that is not quite right, however my patience is tested every waiting period for items to be delivered. I suppose it is the additional cost of choosing pieces that are made-to-order.

Whilst I wait for the last order to arrive, which was placed in January, I carefully consider all of my options for lounge chairs and desk chairs: design, construction, comfort, fabrics, leather; and even a new desk to replace the first piece of furniture from my furniture-making days. It is the most exciting part of the process. And even more fun is, marrying treasures from our past with all of the present - creating a home that is uniquely our own.

Paint Colour: Jack Black by Little Greene Paint Co.

Paint Colour: Clocktower by Marston & Langinger.

Paint Colour: Jack Black by Little Greene Paint Co.

A new-build seemed like the better choice for one who cringes at the mere thought of another human being's germs on door handles. The notion of a fixer-upper was overwhelming and paralysing. However, an obsession in interior decorating to my exact standard and taste leaves all options indiscernible. A new wall was demolished; new carpeting, new doors and new plantings were all removed and replaced. Although the kitchen-diner is functional, I have a great desire for one bespoke to my wishes. And the list continues: floor and wall tiles, sinks and taps, paving slabs, &c. The idea to gut the three-level stairwell and install one that would allow daylight from the skylight to illuminate straight through to the ground floor is one I should think to leave by the wayside. The dark-stained oak planks, which were commissioned and fitted even before we closed on the house, are enough - for now. A work in progress, it shall continue to be, is our home sweet home.

I awake with eyes still closed and my mind already running lists of what has been done, what must be done today, and what can wait until tomorrow or next week. I fight the noise by keeping my eyes shut, however that ineffectually increases the volume of my mind's clatter.

A mind too active is no mind at all, writes Julia Cameron in her book titled, 'The Artist's Way'. The primary tool in recovering one's creative self is what she terms morning pages, which I adopted as my daily ramblings. Whilst these wordy junkets are helping to unravel the jumbled mass of incoherent thoughts swimming in my mind, which then allow me to continue my day less dishevelled, reading is creating order and flow.

Turning to classic period novels - some, I am rereading and many more, for the first time - has initiated a momentum for daily reading. They transport me to a different time and place, which I am very much drawn to and where it seems I would feel right at home.

Travelling between centuries from one book to the other, as I am also gripped by Robert Macfarlane's vivid writings of his voyages, there are not enough hours in the day to read as much as I wish, or enough space in my handbag for both 'Vanity Fair' and my kindle. I cannot read quickly enough to satisfy my urgent curiosity to learn what will become of W.M. Thackeray's Miss Rebecca Sharp and Miss Amelia Sedley. My eagerness and impatience want to open the next chosen classic, 'Madame Bovary' - a French period novel, except for the constraint of twenty-four hours hardly balanced between the To Do's and To See's; the pleasure of reading and this therapeutic arduous exercise of writing.